


Inadequate Insensibility

by vmercyb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hogwarts, M/M, Memory Loss, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-02-26 17:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2660144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vmercyb/pseuds/vmercyb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is the maddest man John has ever had the misfortune of meeting. He is careless and childlike and John could do without him. But how will their relationship change when they realize they had met before that time at Bart's, in a little place called Hogwarts?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There’s a broken teacup on the floor next to John’s chair. John thinks this as his head lolls to the side when he wakes. His eyes are groggy and there’s a metallic taste in his mouth. He feels a cut on the inside of his cheek and winces at the pain of his tongue pressing on it. His muscles are sore; it’s almost as if he’s been shocked. He calls out for the only name he can think of, “Sherlock?” He receives no response. He calls again; nothing. When he finally finds the strength to raise himself up, he falls back on the chair and into a heavy slumber.  


\- - - - -  


Sherlock arrived late. John concludes this when he wakes again. His watch reads 3:08 AM and there are footsteps steadily making their way up the seventeen steps to the flat. John’s head moves to look at the door when it opens and a 6-foot tall man stands in it: Sherlock. Two weeks he’s been living with the man and he has already gotten used to him being gone for days and coming back at dawn.  


“See you made it back alive, then.” Sherlock says in lieu of greeting, “Did you just wake? You must’ve been out for a good eight hours.”  


“No, I…I…was awake—wait. What? You knew I was unconscious? And you just left?”  


“I doubt I would have been much help” Sherlock’s gaze shifted to the floor and his feet fidgeted.  


John ignored the comment; he could have at least called an ambulance and said, “What happened?”  


“I’m…uh…not sure.”  


“Well where were you when I dropped?”  


“I…uh…how would I know?” Sherlock mumbled out, “I don’t know when you blacked out.” He hesitated then added, “Are you—do you need help?”  


“I think I’m fine. Probably need to stay up, just to be sure, y’know.”  


“Right. Well. Goodnight.”  


“G’night.” And with that, John was left to himself. That was strange, he thought. That was the first time he had ever seen the man so flustered.  
John remained in the sitting room for what seemed like hours but was only minutes, trying to dissect the events of that night. He was staring at the nothingness of the windows in front of him when a sharp pain jolted him back to reality. He raised a hand his head, the source of the pain. He shut his eyes trying to block it out. He shut his eyes so tight they hurt. When he opened them, he only saw white, blinding and hot. He blinked; still white. He blinked again; no change. His eyes kept blinking in denial when—he saw an image. Amidst the white appeared a house. He recognizes it; it is his childhood home. He blinks again and he is standing inside it, in the too familiar dining room. John wonders if he has begun hallucinating or if he’s dreaming because from a door to his right enters an eleven year old John Watson.  


He recognizes himself from family photos taken more than a decade ago, but he cannot remember this moment of his life. He, his younger self, holds an envelope in his small hands. He doesn’t seem to notice John. He slowly walks to the dinner table and sits down to read the letter. John feels as if maybe he does remember this, but maybe he just wants to believe it so much his brain has concocted a lie in disguise of a memory. He squints at his younger self in suspicion. Can’t be true, can it; must be a dream. He feels as if he can remember what happens after this, though. It’s as if only this exact moment in his life was deleted. He remembers the fighting, the screaming and the feeling that it was somehow his fault thought he could never place why. This was the day his father left him. His mother was never the same after it. She threw herself into drinks and Harry, his older sister, soon followed. That was also the year he was sent to boarding school, he remembers.  


Suddenly, john feels a jerking sensation in his gut and the next instant he is looking out of his eleven year of self’s eyes. He looks down; small hands hold a thick envelope with a red wax seal at the opening. He looks around at the kitchen and table, assuring his privacy. He takes a deep breath and opens the letter inside. **_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_**. John blinks and the next thing he sees is Sherlock’s square leather chair. He is back in 221B. Did he ever leave is the question on John’s mind. The morning sun shines through the windows and his watch reads 8:00 AM. Hs body feels refreshed and void of what weighed it down before. Maybe it was just a dream. Either way, he vows never to tell anyone about it. And what in the hell is Hogwarts?  


\- - - - -  


Sherlock awoke at noon. Or rather, he left his room at noon; he had not been able to sleep the night before. The events of the night before were stuck on replay in his mind: John making tea; John handing him a cup; John touching his hand; then blackness. It all happened so quickly Sherlock would doubt it ever did if he had not woken hours later to see a similarly blacked out John Watson and a broken cup on the floor. He jerked himself up, wobbling as he struggled to stay there. His first thought was to wake John up, but then he would have questions. Questions Sherlock did not want to and could not answer now for he needed answers as well. So he left. He left the flat and walked around the labyrinth of London over-analyzing what had just happened. It was around midnight that he decided to come back. He was just reaching the door of 221B when he felt a sharp pain at the back of his head. At first he assumed he had been attacked and was getting ready to fight back when whiteness blocked his vision. It downright blinded him. He fell to the steps in front of the door and let himself be taken into a memory he had no memory of.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning after was a silent one for Sherlock, something he wasn’t unfamiliar with, until John walked into the kitchen and began his daily routine. His hair was mussed up with sleep yet his eyes were red and puffy. So no sleep either, Sherlock concluded, just tossing and turning; that’s to be expected from an ex-soldier, he assumed. John sat down at the kitchen table, jammed toast in hand, reading the paper. Sherlock looked at the man’s profile while he considered his next actions. Decided and sure, he stood and walked determinedly to the kitchen and sat beside him. Looking pointedly at him, he said, “You didn’t sleep last night. Mind sharing?”  


“Hmph,” John swallowed hard, having just been shocked by how quickly Sherlock got from one side of the flat to the other, “I do mind actually.”  


“Fine,” Sherlock said offhandedly, “then mind hearing me? Sometimes I think better when I talk things out with someone. Usually I have someone, but well, Mrs. Hudson took my skull.”  


“So I’m basically filling in for your skull?”  


“Relax, you’re doing fine. So,” Sherlock began, “last night I arrived at about midnight and-”  


“You got here at three.”  


“No I didn’t.” Sherlock quickly replied and continued, “I arrived at midnight and I was attacked outside our front door.”  


John’s eyebrows drew together at this. “Are you okay? Why didn’t you say anything last night? Were you hurt?”  


“That’s not important; I’m perfectly fine. What is important is that when I turned around, there was no one there. I mean who hits someone on the back of the head and just leaves like that?” Sherlock’s mouth was growing into a smile, something that deeply worried John.  


“Could be just a joker, some bored kid.”  


“I think the youth of today can find other ways to entertain themselves. No, John, what I’m saying is, I think it was a warning.”  


“What kind of warning?”  


“Death threat maybe.”  


“Get those often?” John half joked.  


Sherlock’s mouth turned to a lopsided smile, “Not as often as I’d like. Not to mention, you were knocked out when I woke. I mean, who would have reason to harm you if not to get to me in the process.”  


“When you woke? You mean last night? You saw me-”  


“Alright, maybe I should clear something up. I was knocked out too, with you. And when I woke, I left and yes, I left you unconscious. Questions?”  


John disregarded the cold-heartedness of the man, it was surprisingly easy to get used to, “What happened before that. I remember being near the fireplace and then when I woke up. But why were we unconscious?”  


“Why is interesting but how is the riddle that needs solving, Doctor.” Sherlock’s eyes lit up with joy at the thought.  


“We were the only ones in the flat.” John squinted with suspicion.  


“Or so we thought-” at that moment, Sherlock stretched out his hand to grab a pen and paper from beside John when their arms brushed by each other and burned their skin at the point of contact, “AHGH.” Both of them yelled out. A pain spread through their body; it was a pain that made them arch their backs and tilt their heads. Their fingers curled and muscles tensed. Their vision turned blinding white and they were both transpired into a dream.  


\- - - - -  


“GRYFFINDOR” a voice above John yelled out. He was 11 again and looking out into what looked like the inside of a palace. The room was well lit and he saw a group of kids his age standing amassed at the bottom of shallow stairs all wearing black robes. He looked at his lap and found the same robes on himself. He heard a roaring cheer from one side of the room and looked up to see four long tables with kids of various ages sitting at them. They all wore the same robes as him only they had ties on; the roaring table had red and gold ties on. He felt a push on his back from a gentle hand and looked to his right to see an older woman wearing what seemed like a witch’s hat guide him in the direction of the roar. He walked on shaky legs, all the while feeling like a kid fed to the lion. Part of him felt as if this was good, though; he felt as if he has accomplished something. As he descended the three steps to the floor, he felt eyes on him. He turned to his left and saw a boy, one from the mass of children, his brain provided him with the word ‘students’, staring at him. He was pale white with a jet-black mop of hair and the most intriguing eyes. He stopped there for a bit and just stared back at him before deciding he was better wanted at the roaring table.  


Once he arrived, he was met with open cloaked arms and smiles. There seemed to be some confusion as to where a kid named Harry Potter was and a group of redhead boys looked at each other knowingly but said not one word. John’s vision blurred and he heard only the muffled yell of a distant “HUFFLEPUFF”. His surroundings spun around him. The people that just a second ago were merrily whispering among each other were now gone. The yellow, candle-lit stone walls around him turned green and he heard the sound of a train on its tracks. He stood up but as soon as he did the ground swiveled around and he was brought to his knees. He stood up again and this time the ground knocked him off his feet and when he landed on his bottom it was on a plush seat in an empty train car. He looked out the window and saw the blur of green that could only come from passing bunches of trees at high speeds. His feet dangled from the seat and he cautiously placed one foot on the floor and planted it firmly there. He stomped to make sure this floor wouldn’t move any time soon.  


He ventured out of the small compartment slowly and began to walk down the long hallway. He looked in windows and saw students in black robes talking amongst themselves. He looked down and saw he wasn’t wearing the black robe anymore, though something told him he should be. He noticed the ties again. These students were wearing a familiar gold and red but as he wandered on, he saw yellow and black, blue and bronze, and one that made him stop walking, green and silver. The reason he stopped was not because of the colors, per se, but rather what those wearing the colored tie were doing. He heard their voices booming closer to him and out of panic he launched himself into the next open compartment. He closed the door behind him and wondered why he was so nervous to bump into them; they were just other students, weren’t they? Three much older students were laughing around a boy around John’s age. The young boy was the star of the show it seemed. John could hear them from inside the compartment. A muffled “Do Bill, do Bill.” reached him, followed by the young boy’s comment in what could be described as a snarky tone even from the mumbled muffle that it sounded like. The whole hallway roared with laughter. John dared to get closer, trying to get a look at the young boy. Through the window to the inside of the train, he could make out a small gap between the three big bodies. He saw black hair and then the boy turned around. Through the gap he could make out pale skin and then—the boy made eye contact with him. He stared for a while. John through the gap between curtain and window frame, the boy, through the gap between the legs of two 17 year olds. The group kept walking and John thought nothing of it. Once he was sure they were gone he slowly opened the compartment door only to find it was not the train he stood on but rather the castle again. He was sat down, feet firmly on the ground, watching the rest of the kids get sorted to tables with matching ties. He heard a loud “RAVENCLAW” and saw a quite familiar dark haired boy make his fast way to the roaring table.  


\- - - - -  


John blinked and was brought back to his world, where he met Sherlock with a bewildered expression and Sherlock did the same to him.  


“What the bloody hell was that?!” John practically screamed.  


“I don’t know, but we need to do it again.” Sherlock replied in calm awe.

**Author's Note:**

> This is most definitely a WIP and I really want feedback to know whether I should continue this or not. Thanks for reading.


End file.
